


The Man in the Mirror

by commodorecliche



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate Dynamics, Soulmates, Strings of Fate Zine, appearance changes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28532604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: When soulmates move in close enough proximity to each other, their reflections in the mirror will change, reflecting the face of their soulmate instead of their own. Jean wakes up one day to find himself staring at the reflection of a handsome, freckled young man that he’s never seen before in his life.
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67





	The Man in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece for the jeanmarco "Strings of Fate" soulmates zine! I'm so, so excited to share it! I wanted to write something featuring a 'marker' of some sort that would be used to identify your soulmate when you come across them. And I figured, what better way to identify your soulmate than to be forced to stare at THEIR image in YOUR reflection until you find them?

**::**

_ “Mama, what’s a soul mate?”  _

_ “Oh, my little Jeanbo. Come here and I'll tell you. One day, when you’re all grown up, and you’re big and strong, you’ll wake up one day, look in the mirror, and see that you’re a different person than you were the day before. That person you'll see is the person you were meant to become a part of - they're the missing piece of the whole you were meant to be. When you're older, you'll understand.”  _

**::**

The shrill ring of Jean’s alarm startles him awake. He groans and stuffs his head under his pillow, but doesn’t turn off the deafening screech. Why the  _ hell _ did he ever think an 8 AM chem lecture would be okay? There has been a 10 AM available - but, given that he too is a constant victim of the folly of man, had thought to himself  _ I’ll be fine with an 8 AM, no problem!  _

It _is_ , however, a problem. So sayeth his pressing desire for sleep, at least. 

From somewhere downstairs, he can hear his parents’ voices. They’re chatting, likely over whatever breakfast his father had cooked and the coffee his mother had so lovingly brewed. At least Jean has  _ that _ to look forward to. With an agonizing moan, Jean forces himself out of bed, and stumbles into the bathroom. Bleary-eyed and on a pair of unsteady legs, Jean relieves himself then flicks the faucet on, bending over the sink to douse his face in harsh, cold water. 

With a hiss, he shakes off the aggressive wakefulness that has overtaken him, and fumbles for his towel. Straightening up, he dries his face, drops his towel, looks into the mirror… 

And  _ screams _ . 

The face staring back from the mirror is decidedly  _ not  _ his own. 

Jean stumbles backwards, somehow managing to trip over his own feet as he does. He crashes into the wall behind him and slips down to the floor in a flurry of embarrassing motion and noise. 

His mother - a woman Jean swears has the hearing of a  _ bat  _ \- is in his room, barging through the closed bathroom door in two seconds flat. 

“Jeanbo! I heard shouting, are you okay? Are you okay?!” 

She crouches down at Jean’s side as he stares wildly at the mirror above the sink. He flings his arm up and points. 

“It-It’s not…”

His mother’s eyes attempt to follow his desperate gesture. 

“What?” She asks, bewildered, as she turns her attention between the mirror and her son. 

“Mama, my  _ face _ … It’s…” 

_Not mine_ , Jean thinks.   


His mother pauses, her face softening, and takes another quick glance at the mirror. Her focus returns to Jean and understanding washes across her features as he stares at him. 

“Ahhh,” She hums, “It finally happened, then? I was wondering when it might.” Her tone is coy,  _ far _ too playful for Jean’s early-morning panic to handle. 

“Wh-what?” Jean admonishes. His gaze darts back and forth between his mother’s placid, almost smug, face and the mirror above the sink. 

Jean’s mother lets out a soft sigh and smiles. She brings one hand to his face and strokes his cheek with as much comfort as she can muster. She offers him her hand, which he takes without hesitation, and hauls him up to his feet. As soon as he's standing - though his legs still feel a bit wobbly - she ushers him close to the mirror. They stare at his Not Face together. Jean’s face is foreign and unfamiliar - so unlike his own. He wonders if his mother sees it, if she sees the stranger staring back at him. 

“Jeanbo, do you remember when you were little? And you asked me what a soulmate is?” 

Jean doesn’t speak - unable to find the words. And even if he did, he wonders if his throat would actually let him speak them. Instead, he simply nods. He does remember. 

“I told you one day you’d see someone new in the mirror. Guess yours has finally come to town…” 

Jean’s brow furrows as he takes in his reflection. 

He notes, with some level of confusion, that it is a decidedly male face that stares back at him. This guy is his soulmate? A guy… Except… 

Jean isn’t gay. 

Oh sure, maybe he’s seen a few guys here and there he’s found moderately attractive, but at  _ best _ , he’d call himself bi-curious, with his preferences always tending to fall more heavily onto the Feminine Side of the dating pool. But here he is, 21 years old, standing in the bathroom of his childhood home, staring into the face of another young man and realizing that this man is the other half of his soul. 

He wonders if his mom can see that it's a man. If she does, she doesn't say anything. 

Odd thing, that. Jean leans in close to the mirror and examines his new features. The face in the mirror does not have his angular jaw, his sunken eyes, his pale-white skin, nor his undercut. The face Jean wears in the mirror is soft - skin tanned, and freckled, radiant. He has short brown locks that tickle his olive-flush cheeks. 

This is not a face Jean would have found himself attracted to yesterday and yet… And yet, the more he stares, the more beautiful the man seems to be. 

“Do I still look like me?” He asks his mother in a rush. 

“What, to me?” 

Jean nods. 

“Oh yes, darling. Only you can see their face, you know?” 

“Does it… go away?” 

“When you meet them in person, it should.” 

His mother wraps an arm around his low back and rests her head affectionately atop his shoulder. She gives him a little squeeze and catches his eyes in the mirror. 

“Don't keep me waiting,” she starts, “What does she look like?” 

Jean’s breath hitches. 

“...She… right. She, uh...” 

The man in the mirror stares back at him - Jean’s morbid expression reflected on his face. 

_ She  _ is very much not a  _ she  _ at all.

**::**

Jean has  _ no idea  _ how people deal with this soulmate bullshit. Obviously, plenty of people have successfully dealt with it, and people are likely dealing with it  _ right now _ , just like Jean is. But how they’re managing to cope is beyond Jean’s comprehension. Aside from the entire business of it being startlingly unsettling, the whole ‘sharing your soulmate’s face’ thing is  _ massively  _ inconvenient. How do people even get ready in the morning if they can’t see their own damn face? How does  _ anyone  _ figure out how to do their makeup or how to style their hair if they can’t see it? 

It’s been two weeks of this bullshit, and frankly, Jean doesn't want to know how he looks to the outside world. He’s sure he looks like a mess since he hasn’t actually seen his own face in fourteen damn days. 

Jean sighs, glaring at the foreign face in the mirror. He’s attempted to style his hair, but this stranger’s hair is much shaggier and _much_ thicker than his own, so very unlike his tight undercut. It's so strange, too, because when he touches it, he can feel his own hair. If he drags his hands along his head, without looking in the mirror, he can still feel the short buzz of his undercut. But he can’t see it, so all he has is the hope that everything is coming out okay as he drags a little product through it. 

He’s never been one for prayer, but he’s sending one out right now to the universe that he at least looks passable. And you know what? Jean hopes his soulmate is, at least, suffering as much as he is right now. 

Eventually, after 15 minutes, Jean gives up. He tosses his bottle of mousse onto the counter with a clang, throws his hands up, and lets out a more than frustrated " _ Fuck It _ ". He hopes the stranger in the mirror can feel that. He points at him. 

“You’re _extremely_ inconvenient, you know that?” He asks his foreign reflection. When the reflection does nothing but glare back at him with annoyance (features holding all the little quirks and ticks that Jean’s own face tends to convey), Jean grunts, and leaves the bathroom with a huff. He’s going to be late if he wastes any more time on this. 

Backpack slung over his shoulder, he rushes through the kitchen and snags a piece of toast from the plate his mother has set out. He kisses her cheek as he passes and tells her he’s heading to class. 

“Alright, Jeanbo - oh, do you work today?” 

“Oui, mama. I’ll be home later.” 

She nods and stares at him for a brief second longer than she needs to. There’s a moment when Jean could swear she is inspecting him, taking him in, perhaps looking for a glimpse of the person Jean has been seeing in the mirror these last two weeks. But she doesn’t see the stranger hidden away in Jean’s face; Jean can’t imagine she expected to, anyway. With a smile, she pats Jean's cheek and ushers him off. 

**::**

Every Wednesday, there is an annoying lull smack-dab in the middle of the day. After his classes end, but before work, Jean finds himself with an empty hour and a half to fill. It’s never enough time to go home - he’d have to turn around and leave as soon as he got there just to make it in time for his shift at the bookstore. But it’s always way too long a time to be entertaining. 

He’s not proud of it, but Jean has become a bit of a Cafe Fly during those hours, buzzing about and lingering in the campus coffee shop until he has to leave for work. The ritual has become so consistent that the baristas don’t even ask him what he wants anymore - they just ring him up as soon as they see him, and wordlessly pass off a Dirty Chai Latte to him. Jean kind of appreciates it. Saves him from having to interact with too many people. 

Today, he takes his latte with a tight grin and settles into the corner of the shop by the community bulletin board. His eyes scan the crowd - a habit he has taken up ever since the stranger’s face had appeared in the mirror - looking, searching for anyone that might resemble that strange man. But he always comes up short, and today is no exception.

With a sigh, Jean turns his attention to the board. There are all the usual flyers on it - clubs and shows and pets for adoption. But near the bottom right, there is a flyer with a picture of a small town-home on it. In bold, handwritten letters it reads: 

**HOUSEMATE WANTED - PRIVATE BEDROOM AND BATHROOM - $500/MO. CALL/TEXT MARCO @ 555-0125.**

Jean peers at it. The house looks nice, and as much as he loves his parents, he’s been itching to get out of his family home and start planting his own two feet on the ground. Even on his meager salary, he could easily afford $500 a month. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he texts Marco and asks to see the house. 

As he finishes his coffee and waits for a response, he can’t help but stare at the stranger’s name.  _ Marco _ . Under his breath, he mouths the word to himself, just to see how the shape of it feels in his mouth. It feels… good. It feels almost…  _ familiar _ . Such a strange and silly feeling, that. And yet, even as Marco texts him back and agrees to meet him the next day, Jean cannot shake the heavy fondness that has begun to build inside him every time he thinks of Marco’s name.

**::**

Jean is thankful he only works a short mid-day shift on Thursdays, leaving his afternoon hours mostly free. He arranges to meet Marco and tour the house at 3 PM. He isn’t proud to admit it, but Jean spends the majority of the day aching for the hours to pass. He has no idea why he’s so jittery, or why he’s so eager to meet up with this stranger, but the time is simply not going by quickly enough. 

Marco’s name sits like a heavy weight in his stomach. Jean finds himself opening his texts messages, re-reading their brief conversation, closing his phone, only to find himself opening the chat again just a few moments later. 

He actually leaves work early, if only because he can’t bear to wait any longer. He winds up parked in front of the house by 2:45 PM, hoping with anxious, coiled anticipation that Marco might come early too.

And it would seem - five minutes later -Jean gets his wish.    
  
At 2:50 PM, a dark sedan pulls into the driveway and a young man about Jean’s age gets out of the driver’s side. The man (who Jean assumes must be Marco) pauses when he first sees Jean's car, but relaxes the very next moment and waves. Whatever tightness and nervousness that had knotted itself in Jean’s stomach relaxes the moment Marco waves to him. With a smile, he turns his car off and gets out, returning Marco’s gesture.  “Marco?” He asks, striding towards the other man. 

“Yeah! Jean?”    


“That’s me.” 

Jean offers his hand, and as Marco takes it, Jean allows himself to really  _ look  _ at him. 

He’s _handsome_ as hell , first and foremost. Jean’s not proud that that’s the first thing he notices, but he can’t exactly help it. Marco is outright  _ gorgeous _ . He’s got a soft, curved jaw, olive-toned skin that’s splattered with freckles, and a mop of perfectly tousled brown hair. Jean could almost imagine that he has run his fingers through that very hair, that he has touched that skin. Warmth blooms in his chest - it’s like he’s known Marco for years already. 

“Have we met somewhere?” Marco asks him, as if reading Jean’s thoughts. 

“Not sure, but you look  _ so  _ familiar.” 

Marco chuckles. 

“So do you…” He pauses and glances down at their hands, realizing that they’re still holding onto each other. Marco laughs and pulls his hand away swiftly. “Sorry. You ready to go inside?” 

**::**

The tour of the house is brief, but thorough, and Jean does feel a little bad that he isn’t actually paying attention to whatever Marco is telling him about the place. His attention is far too focused on Marco himself: the way he moves, the way he speaks, the way he gestures to this thing or that through the house. The way his smile spans from ear to ear and how he often laughs when he talks. 

Jean is  _ enraptured _ . 

“And this,” Marco says, leading them down the hall, “would be your bathroom.” 

He flips on the lights and heads into the room, Jean close behind him. But Marco brakes hard as his eyes catch sight of the mirror. Jean collides into him and starts to apologize, but stops as he follows Marco's gaze toward the mirror. A gasp hitches in his throat at the image reflected back at him. 

The absolute first thing Jean notices is that he has his own face back. 

The second thing he notices is that  _ Marco’s _ face in the mirror is a dead ringer for the one Jean's being seeing in place of his own for two solid weeks. Jean’s mouth falls open, his brow furrowing as he steps closer to the mirror. Marco is stock-still, eyes laser-focused on their reflections. 

“You...” Marco starts, but doesn’t finish, voice trailing off into little more than a whisper. 

Jean yanks his gaze to his right, turning to try and take Marco in again, but Marco doesn’t look over. Jean looks back to the mirror and inspects the reflection. 

“Holy  _ shit _ .” 

“It’s you,” Marco breathes, his eyes finally pulling away from the mirror and looking at Jean. 

Jean shakes his head, unable to figure out where his gaze should rest. He darts between his own reflection and Marco’s. 

“I’ve, I’ve been looking at you in a mirror all this time, I didn’t… I didn’t recognize you like this…” 

Marco’s eyes catch his in the reflection, and despite the look of abject shock on Jean’s face, Marco suddenly cracks into an expression of pure joy. His smile is wide and radiant as he laughs, turning his body towards Jean. He places his hands on Jean’s shoulders and turns Jean’s attention away from the mirror. 

“It’s  _ you _ ,” Marco tells him again, laughing, almost disbelieving still. 

“And  _ you _ ,” Jean murmurs back, his own grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

Marco’s hands drag up his biceps and along his shoulders. They pause briefly at Jean’s throat, thumbs caressing the exposed skin there. Goosebumps prickle across Jean’s skin at the contact and with shaking motions, he allows his own hands to come to rest on Marco’s hips.

“Oh fuck,” Marco breathes, “I think I’m gunna kiss you.” 

Jean gapes at him but nods his approval before he can even think about it. In one swift motion, Marco tilts forward and claims his mouth with a groan. Jean’s fingers curl at Marco’s waist as his breath shakes out through his nose. Marco’s mouth is soft and yielding against his own. He’d expected this to feel weird - he’s never kissed a guy before - but instead, it's like coming home. It’s as though he has kissed Marco’s lips a thousand times before, as though he will kiss them a thousand times again. 

Jean loves it. 

He’s terrified, and he’s excited, and in shock, and he  _ loves  _ it. 

They stay like that for a few moments longer before Marco breaks away with a soft peck. 

“That uh,” Jean starts, his eyes still closed, and his voice tight in his throat, “that felt good.” 

“Definitely.” Marco clears his throat and lifts his hand to Jean’s cheek. He cradles it with care, the pad of his thumb catching on Jean’s stubble, “So what do you say? You want the room?” 

Jean snorts, but leans more deeply into Marco’s palm. 

“Hell yes…” 

**::**

**Author's Note:**

> I've been anxious to share this piece so I'm really hoping y'all like it! If you liked it, maybe consider leaving me a little comment, or even a kudos. Y'all know I thrive on it. 
> 
> You can find more info on the zine on the official twitter [@JM_Zine](https://twitter.com/JM_Zine). There you'll find more info on all the contributors and their pieces. 
> 
> You can also come yell at me on [tumblr](https://tumblr.com/blog/view/commodorecliche) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/commodorecliche).


End file.
